Spoons
by northelypark
Summary: Clive didn't realize her competitive streak extended to slightly ridiculous party games...


I once read somewhere that chess is a fairy-tale of 1,001 blunders. One of those droll aphorisms you don't think much of until you find yourself in the exact situation implied and all that pithy cleverness comes back to haunt you.

Was it really only 1,001? I felt as if I had blundered my way quite past that number. Perhaps against an ordinary player my mistakes wouldn't have seemed so pronounced, but against someone who knew how to exploit them they stood out like blood spots on snow, easily seen, easily counted, a trail leading back to my mangled ego. A ghastly metaphor, but with that expression she couldn't be out for anything less than blood.

"Checkmate."

She practically owned the word for as little as I ever got to say it, but I wasn't the type to sulk. Not when I still had a chance at winning a verbal sparring match.

"What a surprise," I said in a voice that suggested I was suppressing a yawn, "You know, I beginning to think you might cheat."

"Cheat?"

Amelia's satisfied smile at having won for the umpteenth time bent into a fierce frown. "How would I cheat?"

I smirked.

"I don't know. Maybe you turned the board round when I wasn't looking?"

"Turned the board? Really, Clive. As if I'd want your five poorly positioned pawns instead of all mine. Not to mention I think you'd notice if all your pieces suddenly turned white."

I laughed dryly. No one could utterly murder a joke with straight-laced logic like she could.

"Poorly positioned pawns? Is that supposed to be a tongue twister?"  
She looked ready to slap me and I wondered if I'd gone too far, when her expression suddenly softened to a small smile.

"It can't be good for you," she said, fingering one of her plaits. With those ribbons in her hair she looked rather delicate, but I had long since learned that when it came to any sort of mental challenge she was made of steel.

"What?"

"To lose all the time. Granddad says it creates a mental block. So why don't we play something you're good at for a change? I feel like I should give you a chance to redeem yourself."

I chuckled.

"How generous. And what if I'm not good at anything?"

"Er…but don't you like playing cards?

It was true. I played often with Cogg and Shipley at home and I seemed to have developed a knack for it.

"I don't think they'd appreciate us playing poker or blackjack in the library."

"I don't know how to play either of those, anyway. Something simpler?"

"Hmm." I thought a moment. It would be a bit of payback if I could win at something less cerebral, perhaps something that required a different kind of skill. My mind immediately alighted on a slightly ridiculous party game that could still be managed with only two people, "How about Spoons?"

"Spoons?"

"It's simple, really." I said, taking out the deck of cards I'd started carrying with me (I was currently working on a code using the deck, a way for the four of us to communicate in secret, but I hadn't gotten very far).

"All players are dealt four cards at the start. The dealer continues to pass cards from the rest of the deck during the round. The goal is to get four of a kind. Once you do you, you grab one of the spoons set in the middle of the table," I paused, "That is, unless you see someone else going for one first. Then, even if you don't have four of a kind you can try and grab one. Since there's only two of us we'll only use one spoon. The person who grabs it first wins."

"We haven't any spoons, though," Amelia said.

"We can use a pencil," I replied, "Do you want to try it?"

She appeared to think a moment.

"Alright. Let's give it a go."

She put away the chessboard and set a pencil in the middle of the table while I shuffled the cards.

"Ready?" I said after I'd dealt.

"Ready."

I flipped over the first card in the deck, glanced at it, and passed it on to her from across the table. Before she had even turned it over, I'd passed another and another until finally I had four eights in my hand. I snatched up the pencil.

Amelia looked up, blinking from sorting through an enormous pile of cards.

"What?"

"I won."

"Already?"

"It's quite fast-paced."

She frowned.

"You dealt. You got to see all the cards first. It was an unfair advantage."

"I hardly agree, but I'll let you deal this time if you'd like."

"Alright."

I shuffled, she dealt. Several minutes later her hand shot out for the pencil, but I got it first.

"Maybe you should stick to chess," I said, jokingly, "I'm not sure if your reflexes are quick enough.

"Deal again," she said, pushing her cards over to me.

Her expression had hardened. I knew that look. She was going to get this or die trying. And here I had thought her competitiveness extended only to chess.

As I began to pass cards to her this time, I noticed her eyes weren't on her hand for more than a second. She had decided to switch strategies and was simply waiting for me to reach for the pencil, so she could snatch it first.

Deciding to try a little bluff, I suddenly jerked towards the pencil as if I was about to grab it.

Eyes flashing wide, Amelia lunged forward in her chair. With one hand, she knocked my own out of the way and with the other reached for the pencil, which was now rolling towards the edge of the round table.

"Wait–"

"I've got it!"

Amelia dove for the pencil across the table just as it dropped off the edge. She probably would have tumbled after it, if I hadn't caught her waist in a flurry of cards, her arms instinctively wrapping around my neck.

For a moment we balanced precariously on our chairs over the table top, breathless. She was so close I could feel her heart thumping which, for some reason, only made mine beat faster.

"Well, that was close," I managed.

Amelia loosened one of her arms and pulled back a bit so we were looking at one another with only a finger-span between us. Her cheeks were flushed, and her blond hair was in her eyes with the sun glancing off of it and she was wearing that rather serious, determined expression with her brow knit that would have looked severe on anyone else but looked rather lovely on her.

"Clive?"

"W-what?"

I felt like someone had tossed me in an oven. It was impossible to breath and my face was hardening bread dough and there was some sort of silent scream roaring in my head that threatened to split my skull.

Then Amelia held up the pencil she had somehow managed to catch right in front of my face and smiled a triumphant battle-worn smile.

"I win."


End file.
